That’s when I notice the glint of threadbare fishing line knotted throughout the area.
Oh no.
Seconds stretch into slow motion. To get her attention, I call out through my regulator, letting out a muffled sound followed by a stream of bubbles.
I motion to her with my fist.Danger. Stop.
When she turns, it’s too late. Already in the thick of it, she’s immediately snarled in yards of nylon. Her eyes burst open, and she tries to move toward me, which tightens the lines. Disoriented, she hits the inflator. Her BCD expands with air, jerking her into a vertical position.
Oh shit.
She screams, spitting out her mouthpiece. A rush of air explodes from her mouth as her arms wave wildly, reaching for it.
This is how divers die.
I go still and try not to panic. Then I close the distance.
Her breaths burst out in short, hammering jets, tearing through the water. The sound is savage, like a desperate animal trying to survive. My vision narrows.
Careful not to get entangled myself, I approach her as fast as I can. Her arms flail, and she hits my face, driving my teeth into the walls of my mouth. I swallow hard, ignoring the sharp, metallic taste of blood. She’s going to die or get me killed if she doesn’t calm down.
I focus on her, grab her wrist and the regulator, and force the mouthpiece back between her teeth, holding it until she seals her lips around it. Then, I shove the inflator hose down. It stops her rise, but she’s in trouble and knows it. Her eyes blink open, and she stares at me blankly, her pupils blown wide. I push away my fear. Right now, I can’t think about her little brother Michael, or Peanut, the Yorkshire Terrier she’s had since she was a teenager.
Carefully anchoring myself to a timber, I signal for her to calm down and pull her close until her mask is inches from mine. Her breathing’s still erratic, but she’s taking in a few deeper inhales and trying to regain control.
I hold her steady until she stills and lets out one controlled breath. Once she’s breathing with a steady rhythm, I take the line cutter out of my pocket and show her I’m going to cut her out. She nods.
I move behind her and pause.
Where do I begin?
So she knows I’m still with her, I keep one hand on her waist and start at the tank valve. I work my way through the lines around her equipment, arms, and legs. When I come back up, I realize I’m going to have to cut through portions of her hair.
This will hurt. Her and me. The last thing I want to do is destroy her beautiful hair. I know it will grow back, but… There’s no real choice, so I do it.
Clumps of line and strands of hair float around us, their intrusion a brief distraction to the schools of wrasses and damselfish swimming nearby. After cutting the last knot of line, I gently adjust her forward and confirm she’s free.
We stay still for a moment until Cathy’s ready to head back. At a safe distance from the wreck, she throws her arms around me, muttering something through her mouthpiece.
I cradle her head and let her hold me until she’s able to swim.
Back on the deck, we’re silent as we get ready for the ride back to the field house. I take the helm, and she sits beside me.
“I really fucked up,” she whispers.
Yeah, she fucked up, and I was stupid enough to let it happen because I listened to my hormones and not my head. I could have gotten someone killed and thrown away years of hard work and sacrifice for a few hours of fun.
Not my proudest moment.
My father’s face flashes behind my eyes as disappointment washes over me. Pulling out the titanium dive knife he gave me after my open-water certification—I rub my thumb across the blade and read the engraving.
Son, be brave. Be free.
A reminder. After every achievement, every win, that’s what he’d say. It was his way of telling me—I’m proud of you, son.
I grip the throttle and ease the boat forward.
What would Dad tell me right now if he were still alive?
